Indulgences
by JPWard
Summary: Hannibal is a man who allows himself many indulgences. Will Graham being one of them. Eventual Hannibal/Will.
1. Chapter 1

The grandeur of Hannibal Lecter's lifestyle has always lent itself to various indulgences. As a man who appreciates the finest that the world has to offer, he spares no expense in pursuing luxury and sensual experience. The pleasure he derives from the visual appeal of fine clothing and an immaculate appearance; the moving experience of listening to world-renowned performers of classical music; the heady scent of a finely aged wine; the exquisite taste of an artfully prepared meal using only the freshest and most delectable cuts of meat, he feels no need to justify or excuse. These things he indulges in freely, taking every chance to enjoy these opportunities while they remain, for he knows that one day he may not be so free.

Today Hannibal has adorned his body with a gray plaid suit, pants perfectly pressed and jacket shrugged on over a matching waistcoat and powder blue spread-collar shirt. The ensemble is accessorized with a tan paisley tie knotted in a double Windsor and a pocket square of the same color tucked into his left breast pocket. His hair is carefully slicked back, every strand kept in place as much with his air of unphasable perfection as with twenty-dollar-a-can hair product. Many hours into the day, his appearance is as polished as it was when he exited his house that morning.

All of his regular patients have come and gone, passing one by one through his office as he nods in all the right places and offers standard guidance for the mundane disorders. Trivial, boring cases. Only one appointment remains, the only one he looks forward to from week to week. Just as the minute hand reaches its apex on the clock face to mark the six o'clock hour, Hannibal is crossing his office to open the door to the waiting room. Exactly on time, he greets Will Graham with customary politeness, and they take their seats for Will's weekly session.

If Jack had tried to push any other therapist on him, Will probably would have said "screw you" and walked away. Hell, he almost did the first time he met Lecter. But in those first few days, something about the man had pulled him in, like a moth attracted to a dangerous flame. Despite the fact that Will was the one being analyzed, Will found himself just as intrigued by the ever-proper Dr. Lecter as the man was by Will. Lecter was the complete antithesis of Will Graham, the self-assured, elegant foil to Will's halting, awkward self. What was that thing people said about opposites?

Despite the number of times Will has had conversations with Dr. Lecter in this office, the grandness of the space still strikes him with its ordered opulence. To Will's mind, the space should be cluttered. The number of oriental rugs, statuettes, curio cabinets, paintings, and books that line the walls would be overwhelming if it wasn't for the careful order that commands the room. Everything has its place, all orchestrated to tell a carefully crafted story about its occupant. The room seems a natural extension of the man in front of him, flashy and ornate, a facade constructed with half-truths. If Will had looked close enough, he might have seen the whole truth hiding in plain sight.

"How are you, Will?" Hannibal asks, casually beginning their hour together.

Will drums his fingers on the arm of the chair and presses his lips tightly together, "I've been good," he says, nodding, "I haven't been losing time; I've been more alert. Probably because I've had a break from staring at dead bodies for a while."

"I'm glad to hear it," Hannibal replies, not mentioning that Will looks on-edge despite his answer. "Jack hasn't called you in on any cases recently?"

"Not until today." Will sighs. "This morning I had to drive up to DC with him to look at a crime scene a few blocks from the capitol."

"Political?" It wouldn't be the first time a politician had been punished by a disgruntled citizen with a gun.

Will shakes his head, "No, the victim was a tourist, there on a business-vacation type deal."

"Then why involve the FBI?"

"The guy was the third victim killed under similar circumstance in three days, and each murder has escalated. The local authorities aren't sure what to make of it." Will closes his eyes, recalling the scene from earlier that day, "The man, like the previous two victims, had been shot twice, once in the head and once in the navel."

The rhythm of Will's voice slows, "There were markings, lines drawn in his skin with a knife at very precise places around his body. The previous victim had the same etchings in their skin, and the first victim had only the two gun wounds. All of them were found naked. The most recent victim was lying stretched out over a pentagram drawn with his own blood."

Will's eyes open, though they are unfocused, staring past Hannibal. "That's when Jack got called in. They're afraid that it might be some sort of cult behind the killings, and with one happening every night so far, they don't want to waste time."

Hannibal nods. "How did you feel, looking at the crime scene?"

A pause. "It's getting easier to make myself look, but it's harder to keep staring once I do." Will glances at Hannibal, "I feel like every time Jack bring me to a crime scene, he makes me look longer than the time before."

Hannibal sighs, crossing his legs, "I think Jack, like most people in his line of work, initially felt the same horror you feel at seeing such things but upon continued exposure found even the most atrocious crime easier to digest. It just became another part of his job. This could be his way of trying to desensitize you to these things as well, to get you used to looking."

Will's barks out a laugh and stares up at the ceiling, "Believe me, Dr. Lecter, no one gets used to the way I see things. Especially me."

Hannibal's foot begins moving up and down in thought, and Will's eyes are drawn to the movement. The light reflects off the shined patent leather, and Will follows the movement of the limb upwards along the pressed pant leg and up Hannibal's torso. Hannibal is watching him,

"Perhaps you will learn."

Though Will snorts at the remark, there's something determined in Hannibal's posture that makes Will wonder what precisely the other man had meant. But Hannibal moves on without further comment,

"Were you able to get inside the mind of this particular killer?"

"I was able to access . . . bits and pieces of their mind, but I feel like I'm missing something, like there's a clue in the crime scene that I'm not getting." Will leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, "It's not what the locals think; it's not a cult. There's only one person doing this. They leave their victims in the middle of the sidewalk or the street, so they want them to be found. And the repetitive, escalating style of the murders makes me think they're trying to communicate something. It's as if they have a message for us, but we haven't deciphered it yet." Will's hands knot themselves together in front of him.

"I'm certain you will, eventually. Your abilities haven't failed you yet."

"And what happens when they finally do?" Will's voice is small.

"Then you will go back to teaching, and Jack Crawford will no longer haunt your footsteps." Hannibal straightens in his seat, and Will watches the muscles stretch beneath his suit jacket, Hannibal's broad shoulders flexing, "but I don't think you're on the brink of such a thing quite yet."

Will looks away, suddenly conscious and oddly bothered by his own gaze. The rest of the hour passes quickly, and soon Hannibal is rising from his chair, all lithe movements, to lead him out. Hannibal extends his courteous good-bye, and they schedule another session for the following week. Will exits quickly through the foyer.

After the hunched, curly-headed figure has disappeared from sight, Hannibal lingers briefly in the doorway of his office. He loosens his tie before turning and walking with meditative slowness to his desk. Seated, he opens his appointment book and pens Will in for his next visit. The name Will Graham is written with careful delicacy on the ivory page. He closes the book and leans back thoughtfully in his chair.

Yes, Hannibal Lecter takes every opportunity to indulge himself, considering it wasteful to let such opportunities slip by. And the enigmatic Will Graham, Hannibal thinks, is one opportunity that should certainly not be wasted.

* * *

_A/N: This is to be a five-chapter fic. Subsequent chapters to be much longer._


	2. Chapter 2

It is raining. The dark, tumultuous sky has finally opened with a steady downpour, washing away the oppressiveness in the air that's been stifling the city for days. Inside Hannibal's office, the sound of the raindrops tapping against the windows magnifies the atmosphere of solitude, which does not bother its sole occupant.

His final client for the day having gone, Hannibal is paging through a book on obscure psychological disorders when a knock sounds from the door to the waiting room. Rising at the tentative noise that breaks the almost-silence of his office (the rain tap-taps against the windows), Hannibal minutely adjusts his jacket and tie before crossing the room to open the door to a moderately drenched Will Graham. The fabric of Will's shirt is dark and heavy with rain, and his curls are damp, water beading on the strands of his hair. A droplet of water makes an unnoticeable *plink* as it falls to the floor.

"Will," Hannibal says, "I was not expecting you."

"I know; I'm sorry," Will touches the back of his neck, anxious, "I would have called, but my phone's dead." When he takes his hand away, it is wet from the rain on his skin. He wipes the water on his damp jeans. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Certainly not. Please, come in." Hannibal moves aside, and Will enters, looking relieved. Hannibal continues, "I would offer you a towel, but, unfortunately, I do not keep any immediately handy in the office."

"It's fine, really; it's just a little rain," (tap-tapping against the windows). "Listen, I really am sorry about barging in like this, I know you must be busy."

Hannibal shuts the door and returns to his desk, "Think nothing of it; my door is always open for a friend."

Will nods in thanks and begins pacing along the perimeter of the office, peering into curio cabinets as he passes them. Before Hannibal has the chance to ask, Will says, "It's the DC case. I can't get it out of my head."

Hannibal's eyes track Will's progress as he moves. "Have there been more murders since we last talked?"

Will nods, critically eying the paintings on Hannibal's walls. "Two. One three days ago and one today. The M.O. is still the same, but the treatment of the victims keeps growing more violent . . . insistent. The girl we found today had lines carved into her so deep the only thing that stopped her body from being completely severed in half were her bones." The involuntary tensing of his shoulders reveals his extreme agitation.

"Are there any leads yet?"

Will doesn't respond to Hannibal's question, just continues describing the bodies in chilling detail. "There are four lines that the killer cuts into the bodies. One slicing around both legs where the fingertips reach the thighs."

Hannibal leans forward to examine Will, who has paused in his walking, his eyes strangely glazed over.

"One cutting through the lower abdomen at the navel." Will briefly closes his eyes and takes a breath at that. The untouched spine had been the only thing holding the body together. "One line carving through the chest and around the back, through the pectorals under where the arms meet the torso. And one encircling the neck at the base of the skull."

Will is shivering, and not just from the chill of his damp clothes.

"Will."

Will jerks his head as if twitching away from a fly buzzing in his ear.

"When I look at other people . . . I - I see them cut up in the same way, the same lines encircling their bodies with mathematical precision. I want to etch those lines deep into their skin." Will is staring at his hands, which are shaking in front of him. His whole body is trembling, his voice wavering, "I want them to know my obsession."

"_Will_." Like a light cutting through a fog, Hannibal's voice, clear and insistent, reaches Will in his stupor. There is a heavy hand on his shoulder, but Will doesn't remember Hannibal moving from behind his desk. Will looks up, cloudy eyes connecting with Hannibal's for a moment before he looks away and shakes his head to disperse the haze.

"Will, please sit down; I'm afraid you're over-exerting yourself."

Blinking, Will complies. Guided by Hannibal's hand, he lowers himself into the chair he occupies during his regular visits. When Will is seated, Hannibal takes the seat opposite him and notes the obvious tenseness in Will's body. (The rain tap-taps against the office windows.)

"You're letting this killer get too far into your head," Hannibal warns, "You can't let yourself lose your own reality in favor of the ones you are empathizing with."

Will presses his palms against his pounding head, and Hannibal wishes that he could just as easily hold Will's mind in his own hands, that he could examine it, touch it in the right places to get it to open up and show him every facet of Will Graham's being.

"I know, I know," Will concedes, "It's just hard to disengage from the minds I'm trying to figure out when I'm on a case. Especially with a killer as persistent as this."

"What makes this one different from the others?"

"The level of obsession." A pause. "They're haunted by something; they can't get away from it. I thought at the beginning that the way they were killing, displaying the victims, was mocking. But it's not; it's desperate. The killer is leaving us clues."

"So they want to be caught?"

"It seems that way. Or at least that's how they're planning it. They leave us the clues in the crime scene, and we track them down." Will sighs and then, laughing bitterly, "This latest victim had Nautilus shells placed in their wounds. Seashells!" He presses his fingertips against his eyelids. "I just can't piece it together."

Hannibal seems to be momentarily entranced with a speck of dirt on the cuff of his jacket. Frowning disapprovingly, he flicks it away with the tip of his finger. He looks at Will, who sits in a state of despair several feet in front of him.

"May I suggest something, Will?"

Will half-heartedly gestures an affirmative.

"You are not going to make much progress in your current state. When I need to clear my mind, I find music to be a helpful catalyst." Hannibal gets up from his chair and walks over to a shelving unit that houses the office's modest sound system. "It helps me to focus on something other than the problem at hand. Then, later, I can return to the matter with a fresh perspective. Shall we try it?"

Will considers. "As long as it's not opera, I guess I'll try anything at this point."

A look of amusement momentarily flashes across Hannibal's face, "No opera, then," he promises. Choosing a CD from the large collection lining the bottom shelves of the unit, he loads it into the stereo.

As the system spends a moment reading the disk, Hannibal introduces the piece, "Debussy's _La mer_. Three symphonic sketches depicting the sea."

Hannibal reseats himself as the music begins. The timpani and strings begin softly, imperceptibly, molding sound from silence. "First movement, 'De l'aube à midi sur la mer' - from dawn to noon on the sea."

Over the strings, the winds come in, and the trumpet is the first to sound the theme, softly, an echo on the horizon of what is to come. Then the gentle push and pull of the orchestra, clarinet leading the woodwinds in the sounding of the second theme as the strings swell and recede beneath them. It reminds Will of being on a boat, swaying as the waves carry the vessel up and down over the peaks and into the troughs of the water. He thinks of his time spent with his father on the boat docks as a boy. Closing his eyes, he lets his mind fill with these images.

His muscles relax, and his head drops onto the back of the chair. There is a moment of tenseness in the music, a sudden change in mood as the strings tremble softly but with great intensity. But this dissipates quickly, the soft crashes of a splash cymbal merging into silence, a cloud crossing the face of the sun. Then the strings return with their calm, swaying lines. He can see the sun shining brightly once more as the cloud moves on, swept off by the ocean winds. Finding it surprisingly easy to get lost in the music, Will is lulled into its calm, the smooth sounds mixing beautifully with the tap-tap-tapping of the rain against the windows. The gruesome images that had been plaguing him earlier are gone, the shadowy world of his empathy beaten back by the sunshine and the sea.

When Will slips his eyes closed, Hannibal allows himself to study the man before him. The slack-jawed, relaxed look of serenity that Will's features display is one that Hannibal has never seen before on Will. He wants to capture it, store it on a shelf somewhere to admire at his leisure. Will's shirt, damp from the rain, clings where it contacts his skin, and Hannibal regrets the fact that he must be cold.

The music swells, and Will sighs, perhaps without realizing it, as the brass leads the orchestra to its peak, where it holds gloriously for a few shimmering moments before decrescendoing into nothingness. In the silence that stretches on, Will opens his eyes and finds Hannibal watching him. Blinking rapidly, Will sits up straighter, regretting his visible lapse into complacency. The pause in the music ends and the strings continue.

"Second movement. 'Jeux de vagues' - Play of the Waves," Hannibal states.

This movement is more boisterous than the first, the vibrato in the strings cresting and receding quickly as the English horn and oboe ripple above them. The energetic, unsettled music jumps quickly from idea to idea, themes and motifs exchanged frequently between instruments. At points, it sounds like a waltz, the dancing of the waves.

Besides Hannibal's introductions of the movements, neither of them have said a word since the start of the piece. Will is attempting to decide whether the silence between them is comfortable or awkward when, to Will's surprise, Hannibal makes conversation. Will had thought that Dr. Lecter would be one to demand absolute silent attention when listening to music.

"It's amazing how music has the ability to move us. It can comfort us or make us feel rage or sorrow or joy. There is much philosophical debate about how or why music has this power over us."

Will suspects that such a debate would mostly go over his head, but he listens as Hannibal continues.

"One theory is that we learn to feel emotion while listening to music through associative experiences. We hear certain music played in the context of something sad, and other types of music in happy, joyous contexts. When we hear similar music later, we then associate that music with those emotions."

Will remembers a church hymn played at his father's funeral. Even now, a few bars of that melody will make his chest constrict uncomfortably. "I think that's pretty plausible."

"Plausible, no doubt. And yet a person who has had little to no exposure to classical music may still weep at the end of Strauss's "Death and Transfiguration" or Puccini's "Nessun Dorma" from _Turandot_. I prescribe more to theory that music speaks to us in ways that are innate, bound in us through nature. They say that we can hear sorrow or joy in music because it shares the characteristics of a human voice carrying those emotions. We feel excitement from fast, beating music because it reminds us of how our hearts would race when on the hunt. We are born knowing these things; they are not taught to us. We spend most of our lives without being consciously aware of nature's influence on us."

The music swirls around them, a feeling of expectancy, urgency building in the air like electricity. Will is silent. Hannibal looks thoughtful for a moment, and then asks "Have you ever heard of the golden ratio, Will?"

Will nods, "Sure, it's a proportion that's supposed to be aesthetically pleasing. It shows up a lot in art and architecture."

Hannibal inclines his head in approval, "It also shows up often in nature. In the arrangement of branches along the stems of plants, the geometry of crystals. There have even been propositions connecting the golden ratio to the human genome. In music, there are also connections. _La mer_, for example. The formal boundaries of the piece correspond exactly to the golden ratio. Whether or not Debussy purposefully structured the piece that way is up for debate."

"And what do you think, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal shrugs, a noncommittal shifting of his shoulders, "I think that it is hard to avoid the natural order of things, and that we will bend to nature's imprint with or without our conscious consent."

Will feels something dark shifting under the implications of Hannibal's words, but he says nothing, simply looks towards the bleak windows.

The music is slowing, suddenly stilling; the calm before the storm arrives to placate the wild sea. The movement ends softly with the scrape of a mallet against the edge of a cymbal, the final note of a flute fading into stillness.

Neither man speaks as the last movement begins, dark pulsing of a bass drum rolling beneath the anxious line of the string basses.

And then, "Third movement. 'Dialogue du vent et de la mer' - Dialogue of the wind and the sea."

There is a powerful undercurrent to this movement, the tide's undertow forceful and unrelenting as the wind casts spray among the waves. A trumpet soars over the orchestra sounding twice its warning fanfare. Then an oboe winds and twists its way through the pulsing strings, playing amongst the colors of the woodwinds. The trombones and French horns feature heavily in the movement, their dark motifs driving the orchestra forward.

Hannibal is staring at the shifting patterns made by the spattering of the rain on the office windows. He seems uncharacteristically lost in thought, and Will wonders which emotions the music moves in Dr. Lecter. What natural imprint he finds himself bending to.

The insistent arpeggios of the strings suggest determination, and they work themselves into a fury before the music slows to another calm. The accompaniment is lightly scored as an oboe solo soars serenely over the strings. Hannibal's fingers lace together and rest on his crossed knee.

And then the orchestra takes the last bar of the oboe solo and runs with it, picking up speed and building furiously again. There is an inevitability to the sounds of the winds and strings as they lead into the final pulsating crescendo of the piece. The brass are triumphant, the strings sparkle. With a soundscape that is the broad expanse of the ocean, the piece climaxes with a brilliant statement of brass over tremulous strings.

The piece ends, and Will is silent, unsure of what he is expected to say. Hannibal rises to collect the CD from the stereo as the next piece on the disk begins playing, a serene piano solo.

"I've never been much for Debussy myself, but I thought you might enjoy the piece," Hannibal says.

Will nods, grateful for something to say. "It reminded me of my childhood. I used to spend a lot of time on docks with my dad."

"Yes, I had remembered you mentioning that before." Hannibal replaces the disk in its case and returns it to its shelf. "How are you feeling, Will?"

Will considers. "Better. My mind is clearer."

"I'm glad. You need to spend more time grounding yourself, Will. It would pain me greatly if one day I discovered that the Will Graham I know was gone, replaced by some other personality."

Will examines the arm of the chair he's occupying. He runs his hand along it absentmindedly. "I wouldn't be too pleased about it either, Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal walks over to the chair opposite Will, stands behind it and places his hands on its back and says, serious, "I care about your well-being, Will. You are important to me - I hope you know that."

One side of Will's mouth twitches upward at that, but he doesn't meet Hannibal's eyes. ". . . thanks," he manages, unsure of what to make of the amount of sentiment in Lecter's statement. He gathers himself up and stands, adding "I guess I better get going, though. It's getting pretty late; the dogs need to be let out . . ."

"Of course." Hannibal follows Will as he makes his way to the door. Outside, the rain has stopped, the spattering of water no longer peppering the office with its noise. "Never hesitate to stop by, Will; you are always welcome here."

Will nods and is about to exit the office when he pauses. Looking back at Hannibal, who is holding the door open, he makes brief eye contact and says, "Thank you, Dr. Lecter . . . really."

Hannibal's mouth pulls tight at the corners in a warm smile. "No trouble at all, Will. Enjoy your night."

And with that, Will leaves, and Hannibal closes the door behind him. At Will's departure, the office suddenly seems shockingly empty, more empty than it had been before Will's unexpected arrival. Now that Will Graham had occupied the room for a short amount of time and subsequently departed, the space feels devoid of an essential presence. Frowning, Hannibal returns to the stereo system and plucks a CD from the shelf. As he seats himself at his desk, the beginning strains of _La mer_ fill the air.

That night, when Will returns to Wolf Trap, the morbid tendrils of the DC case are once again starting to insinuate themselves into his mind. Without Hannibal to guide him, it is hard to push them away as he stumbles around his home, letting his dogs out and preparing for bed. The images of the mutilated bodies, the pentagrams of blood, the bloodied shells stuck in gaping wounds, mix with words from his conversation with Hannibal, and something nags at him. Something Hannibal had said. About music, about nature, about . . .

"_Shit_." Will makes a sudden beeline for his computer, tripping over a furry four-legged body in his haste. It takes only a few clicks and some words typed into a search engine to confirm his sudden epiphany.

Twenty minutes later, he is calling Jack's cell phone, and Jack's voice, tinny through the phone speakers, sounds foggy with sleep when he answers, "This had better be important, Will."

And Will responds, "Jack, I can tell you exactly when and where the DC killer is going to strike next."

The sleep is suddenly gone from Jack's voice. "I'm listening."

* * *

_A/N: This chapter, for some reason, was really difficult to write, which is why it took so long to post. I'm hoping to post the next chapter by the end of this weekend._

_Comments are always greatly appreciated!_


	3. Chapter 3

Will follows Jack and the two other agents as they file up the narrow walkway to an inconspicuous looking row home on Constitution Avenue. The clean, well-kept exteriors of the homes on the block starkly contrast the grim business they have there.

Looking back at Will, Jack growls, "You had better be right about this, Will."

"When have I ever been wrong, Jack?" Will snaps back, though he is anxious himself.

_In Quantico, Will gestures wildly over the map they have pinned to a board in Jack's office. The five previous murders are marked on the DC street map with pushpins and labels._

_"It's all based on the golden ratio. Everything about this case is connected to it in some way. The lines carved into the bodies are carved at places where the '_divine proportion_'," Will spits the phrase out, aware of the macabre irony, "can be seen on the human body. The line around the thighs defines the golden ratio based on the height of the entire body. And then each successive line moving up the body defines the proportion again between the top of the head and the preceding line."_

_Jack looks over at Beverly, who is hearing Will's theory for the first time. Jimmy and Brian are in the morgue working on another case._

_"Does that fly with you, Beverly?" Jack wants to get a second opinion on Will's facts._

_Beverly shrugs, "Yeah – it follows what I know about this "golden ratio," and from the bodies that we've had in here, the pattern definitely holds."_

_Jack looks satisfied for the moment, "Alright, Will, keep going."_

_Will takes a breath and plunges forward, "The geometry of the pentagram, which we've seen now at the last three crime scenes, is also associated with the golden ratio." He doesn't bother boring them with the precise details of exactly how it's connected. The _how_ isn't really important; it's only the fact that it is that matters. "And the nautilus shells that were in the wounds of the last victim are known for their spirals that correspond to the golden spiral." Well, if you wanted to get technical about it, the spirals in shells are actually logarithmic spirals, but it's a close enough approximation. Google had been a great source of information for Will in the last few hours._

_"I'll give you those," Beverly says, "But how does that tell you when and where the next murder's going to be?"_

When they reach the door, Jack is in front, and most of Will's line of sight is blocked by the two stocky agents between them. They don't have their guns out, but Will can tell by the way they stand that they're ready to reach for them should it prove necessary. Jack rings the doorbell, and the little hunting party waits in anticipation, their sense of reality balancing strangely in this moment like dust on the head of a needle.

The door opens.

_"I'm getting to that part. Look – " Will motions to the map behind him. "The locations of the last five murders connect to form the beginning of a golden spiral, with each successive murder a quarter turn along the spiral from the last. Following that pattern, we can predict the next murder to be here – " Will points out an intersection of two streets by Lincoln Park._

_"And as far as when . . . if we take the day the first victim was found to be Day Zero, the next murder was committed one day following, and the third murder one day after that. Then the fourth two days later, and the most recent three days later, yesterday. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3. It's the beginning of the Fibonacci sequence."_

_"Which, let me guess," Jack interjects, "Is somehow connected to this 'golden ratio'."_

_"_Yes_," Will says, "And the next number in the sequence is five, so the next murder will happen five days from the last one, which was yesterday, so four days from today."_

_Beverly looks impressed, Jack less so. It all sounds a little too hand-wavy for his liking._

_"So, assuming you're right, we know that another body is going to turn up in four days. But I don't want to wait four days, Will. I'd rather get this guy into custody before he makes a golden cadaver out of another civilian."_

_Will pauses at that, looks at the map for a moment. His voice is pensive when he says, "It's all spiraling inwards. Collapsing around one point." _

_Jack and Beverly exchange glances. _

_"And that point is going to be the origin of this whole thing." Will traces an imaginary curve around the paper. "If we figure out exactly what point on this map is the center of the spiral, then we've got our killer."_

_"Fine," Jack huffs, "Figure out what that point is. If it happens to be a residential home, Beverly can dig up information on the owner. If we can, I'd like to pay them a little visit before the day is out."_

_Beverly snorts, "Yeah, but you can't exactly go busting into someone's home and arrest them just because they happen to be in the center of some killer's imaginary golden spiral." Beverly is the voice of reason in Jack and Will's pointed theorizing._

_"Well, we'll just stop by and ask some questions, then." _

"Miss Lorena Rodriguez?"

The women standing in the space of the open door nods, her thin shoulders set and her head poised delicately on a slender neck.

"Miss Rodriguez, I'm Jack Crawford from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"I know why you're here," she says, her eyes flickering past Crawford to settle on Will. "Please, come in."

_"They aren't going to need to be taken down in a blaze of gunfire, Jack," Will says, slightly annoyed when Jack starts planning what sounds like a full-on assault of the home that's been circled in red on the map. "I'm telling you they _want_ to be found; they've planned everything out, and their capture is their endgame."_

_"Yeah, well, to me it sounds like they're the spider and we're the fly. We follow the web to the middle and get into a sticky situation once we get there."_

_"Jack, listen, I'm telling you that's not how it's going to happen. They're desperate to be caught; they're not going to put up a fight." _

The living room is small but well furnished, and Rodriguez motions for them to have a seat, though none of them do. Jack, ever impatient, gets straight to the point.

"Miss Rodriguez, we're here investigating the recent string of murders in this area. We've been led to believe that you may have some information that might be useful to us."

"I know why you're here," she repeats, not bothering to look at Jack. Her eyes haven't left Will since she answered the door. "You're Will Graham," she says.

Will doesn't respond, and Jack steps between them to block her line of sight, "Ma'am, Mr. Graham is only here as an observer. He's not here to talk to you. If you'll just answer a few questions – "

"What questions?" she snaps, suddenly hostile, "Am I the one who killed those people? Of course I am! You wouldn't be here if I wasn't!" She inches to the side, trying to meet Will's eyes behind the three bodies that are tensing in the space between them. "Please!" she says to Will, "I knew you would find me! You have to help me – you understand me!"

Will can see the madness bubbling up inside of her. Perhaps in the beginning, when it began growing inside her months ago, it had been well contained, carefully kept in check, but now it leaks from Rodriguez in slow gushes, oozing from her eyes and her mouth, both of which she cannot keep still.

"That damned number haunts me – the golden ratio – I can't get it out of my head." Her voice is a desperate whine. "I see it everywhere, and I can't look away. I can't think. It's _consuming_ me." Her center of gravity sags, and Will can't tell if she is on the verge of collapsing or is preparing to lunge at him.

"I know," Will says, placating her.

Jack and the other two agents are trying to calculate exactly what type of threat Rodriguez is. Their inaction suggests that they aren't sure. "Will – " Jack warns, throwing him a look that clearly reads _shut the ever-loving-fuck up_.

Will ignores Jack when he asks, "Lorena, why did you kill those people?"

She looks shocked, pained that he asks her that. "I wanted them to know my obsession." She whispers it like a secret.

Will looks at the floor, away from her pleading eyes, "I'm sorry. I can't help you."

There is a moment when everything is completely still, and then the madness comes, pouring out of her, and Will feels like he's drowning in her psychosis. Screaming, she lunges toward him, but the two agents are on her well before she reaches him. They each grab an arm, restraining her as she throws herself against them, shrieking, "_Please_ - you have to help me - you're the only one who understands!"

Jack approaches the struggling woman with a set of handcuffs and says to Will, "Go wait outside." His voice is all gruffness with mild annoyance creeping in.

Without hesitation he leaves. The sounds of Rodriguez's pleading cries and shrieks of indignant rage spill out of the house and onto the sidewalk where a few curious neighbors are lingering. Will can feel the burn of their enquiring eyes on him as he wrenches open the door to his car and climbs inside. He rests his head on the steering wheel and wills away the sudden tiredness that washes over him.

It's late afternoon when they cuff Rodriguez and take her in, and although Will wants nothing more than to go home, Jack insists that he stay on hand while the local authorities question Rodriguez. It's quarter to six when he finally gets the go-ahead to leave, and the first thing he does is pull out his cell phone to call Dr. Lecter with the intention of canceling his therapy session, which is scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. If he left now, by the time he reached Baltimore, it would be almost seven.

Lecter is understanding when Will apologizes for not calling sooner.

"Think nothing of it, Will. The obligations of your work must sometimes push aside other commitments," Hannibal says, "but if you would like, I would be delighted if you still wanted to stop by. Not for a session – I think you're tired enough as it is, but perhaps you would like to have a glass of wine with me to celebrate your most recent success?"

Will _is_ tired, but he feels compelled to accept Hannibal's offer. He rationalizes that since it was Lecter who provided him with the keystone to solving the case, it is the least he can do to show his appreciation. He pointedly ignores the fact that it might also be because he is starting to simply enjoy being around the other man.

"That sounds good, actually," Will says.

"Fantastic." Hannibal sounds pleased. "When your obligations in DC are wrapped up, come by my house instead of the office - I assume you remember where it is?"

"Yeah," Will says. He's been there once before. "I'll be there in an hour."

"I will see you then. Good-bye, Will." Lecter hangs up.

A fifty minute drive later and Will is pulling up next to Hannibal's elegant home. It's unapologetic grandeur prompts him to think, _does being a psychiatrist really pay that well?_ He knows it would be rude to ask. Like during his previous visit, Will feels blatantly out of place when he walks to the door and rings the doorbell, the button of which is encased in an ornate metal frame. He can hear the ring of the bell echo behind the door, fading as it reverberates into the interior of the house. A minute later, during which Will shifts his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, Hannibal answers the door. Will is familiar with the brown waistcoat and the rust-colored shirt that he is wearing, though the accompanying suit-jacket has been removed, and the sleeves of the shirt are rolled up in an air of casualness.

"Will!" Hannibal voice rings with geniality. "I'm glad you decided you come by."

"Well, I appreciate you inviting me over, Dr. Lecter." Will says, stepping into Hannibal's foyer.

The door closes behind him. "Please, Will, call me Hannibal. I'd like to think that our relationship is more than just that of unofficial therapist-patient."

Will smiles, not hesitating when he says, "Sure, Hannibal. I'd like to think so too." The discarding of the formality puts a large crack in the professional boundary that their unique relationship had once demanded. But, professionalism be damned, Hannibal wasn't officially his therapist anyway, so Will doesn't see the harm in it. Being allowed to use his first name, Will feels as if he has been acknowledged as Hannibal's equal, set apart from Jack and the others who refer to him, with weighted reverence, as 'Dr. Lecter.'

Hannibal looks pleased at Will's ready acceptance as he brings him into the kitchen, where he excuses himself briefly to fetch a bottle of wine from the basement. Spending the few minutes alone in the unfamiliar kitchen, Will is struck by the fact that the space looks more like the set of a high-end cooking channel show than a kitchen fit for the ordinary, every-day cook, though Will supposes that Hannibal is far from ordinary in his cooking. Just like Hannibal's office, everything in the kitchen has its place. Spices in wire racks are meticulously organized; every surface is unnaturally clean; and the handles of knives protruding from a wooden block on the counter gleam with purpose.

From the door to the basement, Hannibal emerges bearing a bottle of red wine. "Farina Amarone della Valpolicella Classico," Hannibal announces, "a particularly robust Italian red wine made from grapes that are first dried for several months." He takes two wine glasses from a cabinet and places them on the counter before opening a drawer to retrieve the wine corkscrew.

As he pops the cork from the bottle and fills the two glasses half-way with the dark red liquid, Hannibal says, "So it seems that another killer has found their way into FBI custody thanks to the unique talents of one Will Graham."

A sound halfway between a snort and a laugh escapes Will as he accepts the glass Hannibal hands him, "It didn't have much to do with me this time," he says as the thick, heady scent of the wine wafts upwards, "It was actually you who put it all together for me."

Hannibal leads the way to the living room, taking the bottle of wine with him. "Me?" he intones, his brow lifted in the perfect picture of surprise and inquisitiveness. Placing the wine bottle on a small decorative table, he takes a seat in a leather wing-backed chair and motions for Will to sit as well.

Will obliges, taking a seat in a chair angled towards Hannibal. He wastes little time in explaining how Hannibal's comment about the golden ratio the previous night had been the catalyst that brought everything together. It was the clue that he hadn't been able to pick up from the crime scenes, the one that had been staring him in the face yet continually eluding him. Hannibal brings his glass to his nose as he listens, whirling the contents gently to release the wine's complex aromas.

"Well, I'm glad to have been some help to you; your visit the night before has turned out to be quite auspicious." Hannibal takes a sip from his glass before examining the color of the liquid, holding the glass in the path of the light emitting from a lamp on the table beside him. The wine is inky, opaque except for the deep maroon-purple tinges on the outer perimeter of the glass. The color matches the voluptuous, expressive taste of the wine. He takes another sip and says, "Tell me, Will, how did our killer react when Jack Crawford turned up at their door?"

While he replays the scene in his mind, Will takes his own first sip of the wine. The taste of the alcohol and fruit are strong but perfectly balanced, and though he appreciates the wine's flavors, he is not enough of a connoisseur to name or distinguish between them.

"She admitted to the murders readily enough – that much I had been expecting."

He takes another sip of the wine, feels the alcohol warming him. It's been a while since he's had a drink. He's more of a social drinker, and, well, he doesn't get out that often.

"What I wasn't expecting was that she started insisting that I help her, that I was the only one who could. Me!" Will shakes his head, "She had become obsessed with that number, that ratio; she said that it haunted her and that I would be able to help. That's why she wanted to be caught – she knew that I would be the one to find her."

Hannibal pauses in thought, then, "I imagine she'll receive help, though it will be coming from a different source than the one she convinced herself she needed."

Will's reply is acrid when he says, "Yeah, she'll be getting treatment from some prison psychologist. Who knows, she might even end up being Chilton's new play-thing," Will says the name like it's bitter on his tongue, "That's not help, that's condemnation."

Hannibal says nothing.

"But how am I supposed to help her when I can't even help myself?"

"No one is expecting you to help her, Will. She's made her choices, and now she must live with the consequences. You are not responsible for her."

"I know. It's just . . ." Another sip of wine. "She . . . I feel like I understand her, and not just in the way I normally understand people, it's not just the empathy. I've felt – I _feel_ – what she feels. I know what it's like to be haunted by something, to have it dogging your every step. To have something be so ever-present yet so intangible that it slips through your fingers like smoke when you try to catch it."

The tip of Hannibal's index finger brushes against the underside of his chin, "The Chesapeake Ripper," he says.

Will nods and is silent for a minute, wheels turning in his mind. "I feel like I'm so close to finding him, but every time I start to close in, he slips back into the shadows where I can't see him. I feel like he's mocking me." Will empties his glass. "Have you ever wanted something so much it becomes an obsession, Dr. Lecter – Hannibal?"

One of Hannibal's fingers cupping the bowl of his glass moves up and down slowly, stroking the smooth surface. He looks directly at Will, and his eyes seem to glint with some hidden meaning when he says, "Yes," and brings the glass to his mouth.

It's said simply and with no offered explanation, and for some reason it makes the hairs on the back of Will's forearms prick up. Thoughts that are loosened with the alcohol roll through his mind. He imagines Hannibal in pursuit of something, something that he desperately wants. Will can imagine the intensity in the pursuit, the elegance and passion in the chase. Even though he's only had half a glass, Will thinks it must be the wine affecting him when he feels a flush rising to his neck and cheeks.

_What would it be like if Hannibal wanted me?_ The errant thought, so out of character, shocks Will. He doesn't know where it comes from, what part of his brain has shoved it into his consciousness. _It's the wine,_ Will tells himself.

"What will you do if you catch the ripper?" Hannibal asks after some moments of silence.

_WHEN I catch the ripper, not if,_ Will thinks.

He places his glass on a table beside him and rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and trying to fight the way that his face is threatening to contort at the images his mind is dredging up. "I'd really rather not talk about the ripper right now," he says. His thoughts are jumbled; unwarranted mental images of Hannibal in pursuit of him superimpose strangely with the faceless form of the Chesapeake Ripper.

"Of course, forgive me for pressing the matter."

"It's fine, I just . . . want to enjoy the lull between cases while I can," Will says, a convenient excuse to switch topics. "Who knows when Jack will be calling me in next?"

"You are right, and your rest is more than well deserved." Hannibal takes the opened bottle of wine from the side table. "More wine, Will?"

"No, I'm fine. Thank you, though." He still has an hour drive back to Wolf Trap.

Hannibal nods and refills his own glass.

"So, what are you planning to do during this brief reprieve? More than just teaching a class or two, I hope."

Will glances over at Hannibal. The question is open, friendly, asked not in the tone of a therapist but in that of a friend. He gives the question some thought before answering easily,

"I think this weekend I'll take a few of the dogs with me to a river I like to fish at. I haven't done that in a while; it'd be nice just to relax with them in the woods, maybe catch some dinner."

Hannibal asks what types of fish Will catches, and they spend nearly an hour discussing Will's fishing, the lures he makes, his favorite fishing spots. The conversation is relaxing, friendly. Will can't remember the last time he's talked about his hobbies with someone who seemed genuinely interested in the things he cares about. Hannibal mentions that, while living with an uncle as a child, he had learned to trap and snare, catching animals ranging from rabbits to deer on his uncle's land. This simple exchange of information, of hobbies and memories, strengthens the bond that has been forming, almost unnoticed by Will, between them.

It is 8:30 and Hannibal's glass is empty when Will rises, saying that he should be getting home. Hannibal walks him to the door, and Will feels a contented glow enveloping him as they pause in the foyer. Placing a hand on Will's shoulder, Hannibal smiles warmly and says, "This has been a pleasure; I hope that we can do this again sometime. Perhaps in the future I will cook dinner for you."

The pressure of Hannibal's hand on his shoulder sends warmth radiating through him. Will doesn't try to suppress the smile that forms when he says, "I'd like that, Hannibal."

Hannibal gives his shoulder a fond squeeze before lowering his arm and opening the door for Will.

"And thanks again for having me," Will says as he makes his way out, "I had . . . fun." He struggles to remember the last time he spent a pleasant evening with a friend.

"I'm glad to hear it. Have a good night, Will."

"You too, Hannibal." And Will makes his way to his car as the door shuts behind him.

That night, as Will lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, he replays the evening over in his mind. He feels now, more than ever, that he's made a real friend in Hannibal. That their relationship indeed goes beyond the unofficial doctor-patient arrangement that it had begun as. It's nice, this feeling of growing closeness when everyone else in his life has remained distant. Jack sees him merely as a means to an end; Alana's "professional curiosity" keeps her at a respectful distance; and the forensics team regards him with varying amounts of misplaced sympathy. The worry that's written all over Beverly's face, the pitying looks that Jimmy sometimes slides him, and the way that Brian avoids looking at him altogether – they all think that he'll just fall apart if someone handles him the wrong way.

Tonight, he had the first normal conversation he's had in a long time that didn't revolve around murder or his mental state, or that carefully tip-toed around those topics in a blatant effort to mollify him. It felt like real, genuine friendship. Will rolls onto his side and closes his eyes, waiting for sleep.

In the darkness behind his eyes, a sensory memory surfaces. The pressure of Hannibal's hand on his shoulder. Once, in Hannibal's office, the touch had pulled from the downward spiral of his own mind. Tonight, it had solidified the growing camaraderie between the two of them, planted seeds of affection that were even now secretly sprouting in Will's heart. He imagines the touch of Hannibal's hand on his shoulder and is lulled to sleep by it. Will is too tired to sensor or berate himself when, as tendrils of sleep start to slip shadows into his mind, he begins wishing that the man was with him now, watching over him in his sleep.

* * *

_A/N: Once again, I apologize for how long it took me to get this chapter up. Don't ever let me tell you "the next chapter should be up soon" again because that probably won't be the case. I work 9 to 5 doing research in a lab, so I don't have much free time to write! I hope you all are enjoying it so far, though. Comments are appreciated!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Sorry to anyone who is following this story and getting multiple alerts of this chapter being posted, I'm having some formatting issues that I'm trying to fix._

* * *

He must be cautious about his darker indulgences, damning things that, though he displays them openly to the world, are carefully absent of any connection to himself. The bodies he leaves behind are meticulously crafted, transfigured by his hands into artwork which must remain anonymous. No sculpted corpse or blood-painted crime scene has ever been traced back to him. Not yet.

To Hannibal, the adrenaline of the hunt is the most potent elixir nature can provide, more intoxicating than even the finest of wines. It is the tactile thrill of feeling the rapid, panicked flutter of a jugular as his hands clamp around a straining neck; the exuberance of piercing warm flesh with a heavy knife handled expertly in his hands; the subtle art of displaying his macabre creations; and the satisfaction of knowing that a pest who had momentarily sullied his world with impolite ugliness had been transformed into something much more pleasing to the senses.

The man, dead before him, proved to be exponentially more useful to Hannibal in his death than his dry, offensive wit had been in life. From his lower back, Hannibal had cut away the chunks of flesh on either side of the loin muscles, a cut of meat that a more traditional butcher would refer to as the 'rump.' With the body propped up against a concrete wall, however, these dissections are barely noticeable, moreso because the observer's eye is drawn to the man's abdomen, torn open, entrails spilling out and coated with a shining layer of blood. Reaching up into the chest cavity, Hannibal had grasped and cut out the heart, that essential muscle through which life flows in measured beats. It had been warm and sinewy in his hand.

The meat and the heart, once properly packaged in plastic and deposited in coolers, are stowed away in the back of his car. The deed in its entirety has not taken more than twenty minutes. Before he vacates the scene, as time is always of the essence, Hannibal spends one last moment admiring his work. The aftermath of his efforts is messy and gruesome, but there is a macabre beauty in the glistening viscera and the frozen look of fear on the dead man's face. Closing his eyes, Hannibal breathes in the coppery scent of blood that will, within a few hours, be replaced with the smell of decomposing flesh, attracting both flies and policeman alike. As always, they will find no evidence suggesting his involvement. No signature on the painting will reveal the artist other than the pseudonym associated with his methods – The Chesapeake Ripper.

Returning to his car, Hannibal drives away into the night, heavy with velvet darkness.

* * *

Will is due at Hannibal's house at six o'clock. On his bedside table, the digital blue display of the clock reads 4:33, which means he still has another twenty minutes before making the hour drive to Baltimore. There is nothing for him to do in the interim, as his thoughts are wandering too much to focus on any one thing, so he sets to pacing from room to room. Some of the dogs follow him, wondering if it's a game.

In the weeks following the capture and subsequent incarceration of Lorena Rodriguez, the closeness between Will and Hannibal has grown with surprising swiftness. Will has put down roots in the solid foundation that Hannibal provides him, and under the warmth of fondness that Will radiates in Hannibal's presence, their relationship has blossomed into an easy yet profound friendship.

For Will, Hannibal is the balm that lessens the heavy grittiness his work leaves in his mind. When he is with Hannibal, Will steps from a world painted with shades of grey to one bursting with colors the hues of which Will had forgotten existed. To Hannibal, Will is a puzzle that needs solving, the enigma that captivates him as few other things have. As they grow closer, Hannibal finds it increasingly easy to work away at Will's mind, which he carefully observes and guides, watching Will's inner gears whirl in an intriguing fashion. If Will notices the careful examination of his mind, he does not seem bothered by it, for what threat does Hannibal pose?

Will snatches a cursory glance at the clock in his kitchen – 4:47. Tonight, Hannibal is fulfilling his promise to cook dinner for Will, and though Will has eaten Hannibal's cooking many times before, the notion of Hannibal cooking specifically _for_ him sets his nerves buzzing. Will moves to the bathroom and checks himself in the mirror. He's wearing an outfit he normally wears to give lectures: a tweed jacket over layered collared shirt and brown pullover. He fiddles with his collar and tugs at the pullover, wondering if he should wear something else. _No, no, it's fine_, he thinks, _it's just dinner with a friend._

He shoos away a dog that brushes against his pant leg and does his best to remove with hair clinging to the fabric.

Yes, just dinner with a friend. Yet this reassurance does nothing to ease the strange, twisting anxiety in his stomach, and as he glances at the clock again – 4:52 – and checks himself in the mirror one last time, he feels like he's on his way to quite a bit more than that.

The dinner is everything that Will has come to expect from Hannibal. Hannibal, dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit, is, as always, the perfect host, charming and not a thread out of place. The food is excellent, "Roast pork rump with crimini mushrooms and roasted apples," Hannibal tells him. It doesn't taste like any pork Will's ever had, but he can't deny that it's delicious.

Their conversation meanders over many topics – Will's work, Abigail and her recovery, Hannibal's plans for a large dinner party in a few weeks. Will can hear himself talking, but it's like his mouth is on autopilot because he can't remember what he's said a few seconds after he's spoken. Tonight, Will is too utterly entranced by Hannibal to pay much attention to his own side of the conversation. Hannibal's speech; his movements, the graceful handling of the power in his well-built frame; his eyes that assess Will adeptly as they talk, all command Will's attention. And each small smile that Will flashes which Hannibal then returns, each quick glance that Will shoots at Hannibal that is met with Hannibal's own gaze, is pushing Will closer and closer to the edge of a mental precipice, dangerous with its dizzying height, terrifying with its unknown abyss below. It scrambles his thoughts.

He wants to reach out and touch Hannibal, brush his fingers against the ones holding the knife that is cutting the slightly pink meat. He wonders how those lips curling around the fork would feel against the pad of his thumb.

Will blinks. What is he thinking? He shakes his head and backs away from the edge of the precipice.

It is as Will is sipping some after-dinner coffee, after the dessert plates – laced with crumbs from a white chocolate and raspberry tart – are cleared, that Hannibal asks Will if he is feeling well.

"You seem a little distracted this evening, Will," he adds.

Will colors a little, "I know; I'm sorry, I guess I just I have a lot of things on my mind at the moment." It's not untrue – the Behavioral Science Unit has lately been inundated with cases all scrabbling for Will's attention.

"Anything you want to talk about?"

The only thing that's actually bothering him is the one thing he _doesn't_ want to talk about.

"No, I'm fine, just a lot of work to do." Will takes a sip of his coffee.

"Well, what is the expression?" Hannibal says, " 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' "

Will snorts, "I didn't realize we were talking about Jack Crawford."

Hannibal laughs, and it is beautiful. And when Will smiles wide at the sound, it is the first pure, truly comfortable moment they have had together all evening. In that moment, Will feels drawn toward Hannibal by some powerful, unnamable force (or perhaps one that he just doesn't want to name), and he wants more than ever to reach out and touch him. Instead, Will buries his face in his coffee and tries to think of other things.

Eventually time drags the evening into night, and Will stands, thanking Hannibal for the dinner and saying that he should be getting back to Wolf Trap. When Hannibal stands to see him out, Will feels a moment slipping by them in the stream of time, one he suddenly feels he does not want to lose.

Hannibal begins to lead the way out of the dining room, but Will takes hold of his arm, detaining him. "Hannibal . . ."

Hannibal turns, "Will?"

Here he is, balancing on the edge of the precipice again. They are so close to each other, Will's hand still on Hannibal's arm.

He takes a step forward – towards Hannibal and off the precipice into an unknown abyss – and kisses the man in front of him.

It is rash and hasty, and as he presses his lips against Hannibal's, he feels himself falling, tumbling through space. Time is at once both frozen and speeding past him, and he feels an acute loss of control over his own actions, though too soon he is crashing, abruptly, back into reality. When his lips break their contact, the fact that Hannibal hasn't moved or responded in any way feels uncomfortably like colliding with cold, hard ground. Will pulls back sharply, instant regret seeping through him as the moment shatters. He expects to see disgust or even anger in Hannibal's eyes, but Hannibal's face is an impassive mask, watching him, dissecting him atom by atom. Will, drowning in that gaze, looks away.

"God, Hannibal, I'm sorry – " he scrambles for words, "I – I don't know why I did that – " And it's true. He can't explain to himself why he has just made such an inappropriate advance towards his closest, perhaps only, friend.

But that's when Hannibal leans forward and returns the kiss. It is soft and unrushed, and at first Will is too incredulous to respond. Soon, however, Hannibal's lips are coaxing him, moving with extreme gentleness against Will's, and Will parts his lips for Hannibal. He has never dreamed of such a moment, not realizing until right now that he had wanted such a thing and stunned beyond words at Hannibal's reciprocation. A liquid heat floods through him, alighting in his blood and setting fire to every cell of his body.

It feels _good_ when Hannibal presses up against him, their mouths making damp noises as their lips move together. Will wants this, wants this physical closeness like he's never wanted anything before. And it's this desperate need that sends Will's mind reeling – balking, suddenly terrified, at the intensity of his feelings.

When Hannibal curls his arms around Will and starts running his hands along Will's back, Will pulls away, averts his face, which is visibly marred with the confusion that is setting in. He doesn't understand this, doesn't comprehend what he is doing and why he wants it so badly, and he shies away from Hannibal's arms like a spooked animal.

"Will?" Hannibal's voice radiates concern.

"I'm sorry, Hannibal, I can't – I can't do this." To his own ears, the words sound strained and far away.

Will is realizing the full weight of his actions, and the fact that Hannibal had – had returned . . . He's standing there, transfixed, eyes cast to the floor as Hannibal studies him.

"I apologize, Will, I had thought . . ."

"No, no, it's me." He can't be here anymore, doesn't want to be in the same room as Hannibal at this moment, "I think I'd better go."

"Shall I walk you to the door?"

"No, it's okay, I'm just going to . . . go." Will backs up into the hallway and, without looking at Hannibal, turns and makes a hurried and undignified exit through the front door, face hot with embarrassment.

As he drives away, Will has to make a conscious effort to calm the erratic pounding in his chest. He tries to reason with himself, explain away the thing that's just happened. He doesn't – he can't – he's not _attracted_ to Hannibal in that way, dammit! Hannibal is a good friend – a great friend – but that's it! He grips the steering wheel, eyes burning holes through the windshield like he's staring down his own denial.

It's been so long since a romantic relationship seemed even remotely feasible that his brain is grasping at straws, he rationalizes. Besides, he's never felt romantic attraction for men. Well, sure, he had done some experimenting in college, but who hadn't? And those fumbling, awkward one-night encounters had just been ways to sate some of his baser needs. It wasn't about attraction, and it certainly wasn't anything _romantic_. No, his feelings for Hannibal are based solely in friendship. His brain is just getting signals crossed in the wrong places, that's all.

_So why the hell did I just kiss him?_ Will tries to open his window, but his shaking finger misses the button, locking and then unlocking his car door instead.

And perhaps the worst thing about all this, the thing that makes it unbearable, is that Hannibal had _kissed him back_. If Hannibal had just rejected him, pushed him away and told him he didn't feel that way about him, or, hell, even just yelled at Will to get out, dealing with this transgression would be infinitely easier. Because then Will could have simply slunk off and told himself that _of course_ there never could have been anything there and that he was just kidding himself. Now Will has to face his own emotions and ask himself, _Do I honestly have feelings for Hannibal?_ And that isn't a question he wants to answer right now.

As he washes the dishes from their dinner, Hannibal contemplates the evening's intriguing development. The kiss had not been surprising. Will's actions over the course of the past few weeks, the subtle signals that his body had been conveying, were portents of Will's amorous leanings. It wasn't hard for Hannibal to guess Will's next action when he had grasped Hannibal's arm, even if Will himself did not know what he was about to do.

Hannibal's pursuit of Will had begun as a wish to possess Will's mind, to examine and mold Will's most intriguing feature. However, his original intent had changed as he drew Will slowly closer. It is now not only Will's mind he wishes to explore fully but his heart as well. It is rare that Hannibal allows someone to get close to him, to climb the walls that he has built with such fastidiousness, but this friendship with Will . . . He cannot deny that he feels genuine affection for the other man, and, unlike Will, he does not balk at where this affection may lead. Never one to suppress the culmination of desire when it presents itself to him, Hannibal has only to wait for Will to accept the natural leanings of his own mind.

And Hannibal can be patient. Knowing how close he's pulled Will in already, he is prepared to wait for Will to take those final steps of acceptance. Given time, Will will bend to his inclinations, and Hannibal will be waiting with open arms, ready to soothe and comfort, murmuring reassuring words.

* * *

Will feels lost. Adrift. As the soft dawn wakes him, he has no desire to move from his bed. He wants to burrow beneath the sheets and ignore the twisted bundle of emotion that's lodged itself in his chest. He just wants to exist, feel that he is the only person in his own small universe where he doesn't have to face anything beyond the edge of his mattress.

So the last thing he needs is for his cell phone to start vibrating with Jack Crawford's name lighting up the screen. He lets it go to voice mail. A minute later the phone starts going off again, and Will can feel the silicone circuits radiating Jack's impatience. Will still stubbornly refuses to answer, but before this second missed call even has a chance to be sent to his voice mail, the phone is buzzing again for a third time. Begrudgingly, Will picks up.

"Hello?" His vocal chords are rusty with sleep.

"Will. I need you to get down to Quantico. A body was found late last night, and all signs point to the Ripper."

Will doesn't say anything, just stares blankly at his ceiling.

"Will," Jack barks.

Will groans, "Give me an hour and a half."

"I'll give you an hour," Jack says and hangs up.

Will lets his hand fall to the mattress, and his cell phone bounces onto the floor.

This. This is not what he needs.

The light in the morgue is cold and clinical, making the body on the table look exponentially more pale and sallow beneath it.

"The victim was found late last night by a security guard doing rounds in a car garage," Price explains, "It was on the top level, sitting propped up against a back wall. Not a lot of traffic up there."

"Only reason the body was found was because of the smell coming from the area," Zeller continues, "The body had been sitting there twenty-four hours at least."

Will grimaces.

Price gestures to the body on the table. "Chunks of muscle were removed from the lower back, similar to how a butcher would remove a cut of meat. The heart was also taken, pulled out through the abdominal cavity."

"Anything else?" Will asks, hoping for something more, something new.

"Not that we could find," Zeller says, "Same M.O. as always. The guy was a gas station attendant in Baltimore. Not very well liked by his co-workers from what we've gathered."

Will nods, though he's finding it hard to concentrate on what's in front of him. As much as he should care about this, he feels the events of last night jostling for his attention. Jack hovers close by, waiting for Will to speak, and Will is annoyed by Jack's overbearing, insistent presence.

"What have you got for me, Will?"

Will shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Come on, Will, I need answers."

"Well I don't _have_ answers, Jack!" Will growls, voice mixed with equal parts anger and annoyance.

Zeller looks suddenly uncomfortable; Price raises his eyebrows; and Jack looks like he's about to unleash hellfire on Will. Jack steps in close to Will, an aggressive move highlighted by the difference in their body mass.

"Then you better _get_ some answers Will," Jack says, his eyes bearing down on him, "Because the longer you can't figure this out, the more people are going to end up like this." He motions to the body without looking at it.

"I don't have anything to work with, Jack!" Will shouts, "It's always the same: the mutilation, the removal of organs, the displaying of the victim to humiliate them. There's no new information here, and until this guy slips up, does something different, I _can't_ tell you anything else besides 'Yes, this is the work of the Chesapeake Ripper'!"

Jack shakes his head, "Not good enough Will."

"Geez, will you listen to yourself?" Will looks to Zeller and Price for support, but Jimmy raises his hands in the sign of an unwilling spectator, and Brian is entranced by ceiling tiles.

"You know what?" Will turns from all three of them. "I don't need this right now." As he starts to walk out of the morgue, Jack erupts behind him,

"Will! Get back here; God help you if you walk out of here."

Jack really is spewing hellfire now, but Will ignores his threats. He walks out of the morgue and doesn't look back.

"Will!" Jack's bellows echo down the hall as Will rides high on his open defiance.

* * *

_A/N: Again, a thousand apologies for taking so long to update. This chapter was re-written twice, and I'm still not happy with it, but there's a point when you just have to move on. Fingers crossed that the next chapter will be out by next weekend._

_This fic was originally intended to be only five chapters, but as I've been writing, I'm realizing that it is going to have to be expanded to six, so this next chapter will actually be the penultimate chapter rather than the final one!_

_And once again, comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you to those of you who have left comments; it makes such a difference as I'm writing to know that people are enjoying my work :)_


	5. Chapter 5

Surprisingly few people are walking the halls of the Quantico FBI facility; besides a handful of personnel in the lobby, Will hasn't seen anyone else in the building since he's arrived. Even allowing for the lateness of the hour, the sparseness of the normally bustling populace of the BAU headquarters is disquieting. As Will pushes open a door leading to a side stairwell, one of the fluorescent lights flickers overhead, briefly casting his movements in staccato flashes of light and shadow.

Jack hadn't been in his office, but his jacket had been slung over a chair and a cold cup of coffee had been sitting on a stack of paperwork. _He's still here,_ Will had thought, _maybe he's in the morgue with forensics._

With little time to waste, Will descends into the lower levels of the building, practically leaping down the two flights of stairs to the basement of the facility. His heart beats a nervous rhythm as he emerges into the cool concrete hallway that leads to the morgue. Will can sense movement just beyond the view offered by the morgue's glass doors and the transparent partitions that separate the workspace from the hallway. _Jack_.

Will's fast walk quickly turns into a brisk jog and then into a frantic run as he covers the length of the corridor. He can feel time ticking away, precious seconds slipping by as he seems to move with agonizing slowness. The atmosphere is gelatinous; the faster he tries to go, the slower his forward momentum becomes and the harder he has to strain to keep his limbs in motion. His footsteps ring out, deafening in their reverberations off the concrete walls. At the entrance to the morgue, Will's skin bristles at the cool blast of air he receives as he passes through the glass doors.

"Jack – " he calls, throwing his gaze to the far end of the space, the view of which had been partially obscured from the hallway. With increasing trepidation, however, Will realizes that the tall, imposing figure standing with its back to him is not Jack. The man, his head bent forward in concentration, is working at an autopsy table, and Will can hear the slow drip of fluids running into the table's drain.

His brain fumbles at processing the sight before him. He takes a hesitant step forward. The identity of the man, though not difficult to place, is difficult to accept.

". . . Hannibal?" Will questions.

His friend is butchering what appears to be a small pig on the surface of the stainless steel table. The sleeves of his white oxford shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and the contours of his back and the muscles of his shoulders are outlined under the shifting fabric as he works. Expertly handling the large, specialized knife in his hand, Hannibal cleaves large chunks of flesh from the body of the animal. His hands are coated red, and the pieces of meat make sick slapping sounds when Hannibal tosses them onto the metal tray positioned beside him.

"Hannibal?" Louder this time.

At this second vocalization, Hannibal's movements slow. His bent head rises from his work as he straightens to his full height, and he sets the long-bladed knife on the table beside the dissected animal. When Hannibal turns around, Will can see the blood splatters sprayed over the front of his white shirt.

As Hannibal walks toward him, Will feels whatever control he may have had over the situation being siphoned away. He becomes a spectator in his own body, watching the scene as it unfolds in the round, white theater of his skull. The hand that reaches out to grip Will's jaw is slick with copper-scented blood. Slowly, Hannibal moves Will's head from side to side as if inspecting him and then, apparently satisfied with what he sees, kisses him roughly.

Will feels Hannibal's touch, but it seems far away, as though these things were happening to someone else and he is experiencing vicariously the sensations. Still, his heart pulses rapidly when Hannibal's lips press against his own, and conflicted feelings of desire and denial battle for dominance. One of them wins out because he feels his head turn away from Hannibal's grip, and he hears himself mumble, "Don't." It's a mild protest at best. The smirk on Hannibal's face is so out of character that Will's skin prickles at the sight of those lips curving devilishly over the wolfish teeth.

Strings pull his body into motion like a marionette, backing him away from the carnality of Hannibal's touch. But Hannibal doesn't relent, pressing nearer, matching each step of Will's with his own and offering the smaller man no avenue of escape.

"You only delay the inevitable, Will," he says.

And Will can sense the truth in Hannibal's words because the portion of Will's mind that protests the acceptance of his desire grows smaller with every fervent beat of his heart.

The backs of Will's legs bump into one of the glass partitions separating the morgue from the hallway, and he is left with no place to flee to. Hannibal runs his hands up and down Will's sides, pressing Will into the glass. Will shivers at the touch. Leaning in to Will's ear, Hannibal's voice is pitched low when he says, "What is the use of denying yourself, Will?" Hannibal's hands squeeze Will's hips, and he lowers his head to mouth and suck the pulse point of Will's neck. His lips mold to the surface of Will's skin, and Will feels the slick wetness of Hannibal's tongue dart quickly between his lips to taste Will's sweat.

The fluttering in Will's chest comes from equal parts fear and anticipation. He blinks rapidly, swallowing hard around the dry knot in his throat. His shoulders ache where they are pressed against the smooth glass, but the pressure of Hannibal's hands and the movement of his mouth distract him from the discomfort. It is not long before finally, reluctantly, Will concedes:

_Yes. I want this._

The pulsating rhythm of his heart spreads to his stomach where heat begins to bloom. His breath hitches, and he snatches gasps of air in ragged breaths through his open mouth. Hannibal's lips curl into a smile against Will's neck, and he softly presses the edge of his teeth against Will's heated skin.

Will makes a choking sound and fists his hands into the fabric of Hannibal's shirt, twisting patterns into the red-splattered fabric. Resting his head against the glass, Will closes his eyes and, bit by bit, submits to his body's urges. Slowly, he presses his lower body against Hannibal, bringing their hips cautiously together. The change in pressure on his groin makes Will whimper in pleasure, heat and electricity spiking his blood. He repeats the motion, timidly seeking friction against the other man. The growl that emits from Hannibal in response is practically feral, and he snakes his arms around Will's waist, cupping Will's ass and murmuring words of encouragement in Will's ear.

"Yes, Will, just like that . . ."

The slow, tentative undulations of Will's hips gather momentum, and soon he is rutting, almost frantically, against Hannibal. Shameful, half-choked groans are forced from him as he allows his repressed desires to ripen and burst inside him. Hannibal kisses along the stubble of Will's jawline.

"Good, Will, that's it . . ."

God, what is he doing? He can't stop himself, can't fight against the current of his need.

Will's chest is heaving; now that he's allowed himself to indulge in the sensations, he can't stop the moans that spill from him like water bubbling over an over-boiled pot. The tension inside him is cresting, and the pleasure is threatening to break when, with a sudden shot of terror, Will feels the glass behind him crack and, seconds later, shatter. The only thing supporting his weight is gone, and he plummets backward. The hallway behind the partition has vanished, replaced only by void, and Hannibal, who should have fallen with him through the glass, has also disappeared. Will is alone, hurtling through sudden darkness with a seeping coldness gripping his heart.

The sensation of free-fall jolts Will awake. He's breathing hard, covered in a thin layer of sweat that dampens his sheets and soaks through his shirt.

_Shit._

Sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of his bed, Will runs a shaking hand over his face and exhales a long breath. _Shit, what's wrong with me?_ he thinks. It's like he's a teenager all over again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his groin and is embarrassed by how hard he is. Though he's aching, some strange sense of propriety makes him pull his hand away. He _respects_ Hannibal, dammit, and he likes to think that Hannibal respects him. Somehow he sees that respect diminishing if the other man knew the state that his dreams have put him in. He stands, swaying a bit, and makes his way to the bathroom.

Splashing cold water onto his face helps disperse the lingering effects of his dream, but Will is finding it harder and harder to deny what every manifestation of his subconscious is broadcasting loud and clear. Will studies the shadows and lines of his face in the mirror over the running spigot and wonders how clearly his transgressions are written on his features. He shakes his head and shuts off the water. As he exits the bathroom, Will hears an incessant scratching, the sound of dull claws on wood, coming from the main portion of the house. He ambles into the living room to see Winston pawing at the front door. The newest addition to Will's family tilts his head to the side and whines. Avoiding a pile of furry, sleeping bodies, Will walks over to let Winston out.

When Winston goes bounding onto the porch, the cold shock of adrenaline that Will receives at the sight beyond his front door wakes him more fully than any amount of cold water to the face could. The previous preoccupation of his mind is instantly forgotten when his eyes light upon the object lying several feet in front of him. On his porch, lit by the gray light of the dawn, is a human heart. Winston is circling the organ, whining and cautiously sniffing it.

In the weeks to come, Will will remember this moment as the instant when he felt a small, essential piece of his world shrivel up and disappear. This little space that he had carved out for himself in the world, the renovated farmhouse in Wolf Trap, surrounded by miles of insulating wilderness, had for years been his sanctuary. It had been a place of safety and comfort that had never been touched by the terrors that crowded his mind. Now, this too, like so many things in the past months, had been tainted, invaded in the most unsettling, intrusive way.

"Winston – Winston, back inside." With fear creeping into his voice, Will calls Winston, who leaves the heart, thankfully, untouched, back into the house. Then, hesitating briefly, Will steps outside to examine the sight for himself.

When he steps onto the porch, his feet are chilled by the cold wood. The air is damp from a storm that has passed by in the night, and the grass is heavy with the fallen rain. Will walks a slow, wide circle around the offensive, horrid object. He doesn't need forensics to tell him that this is the heart the Ripper had taken from his most recent victim. Will runs his hands over his goose-fleshed arms. Why is it here? Where is the Ripper now?

_Is he still here?_ Will wonders, _Watching me from a distance, waiting to see what I do?_ Barefoot in his damp shirt and boxers, Will feels exposed, naked, and unprotected in the morning light. The Ripper knows his face and where he lives, but to Will, the Ripper is still just a shadow, a shifting form moving in darkness.

Will finds it suddenly hard to breathe, and his palms are sweating as he opens the front door to re-enter his home. When he shuts and locks the door behind him, he stands for a moment in the stillness of his living room and listens to the breathing of the dogs. He feels the vague form of the Ripper moving, closing in around him, and he is scared. He does not feel safe.

Winston follows Will as he walks to his bedroom in search of his cellphone. There are four voicemails on it. Three are from Jack, all left over the course of the previous day after Will had walked out on him in Quantico. Will hasn't bothered to listen to any of them. One is from Hannibal. Will hasn't listened to that one either, though he wonders if it was left at Jack's insistence when Will had refused to respond to Jack's calls, or if it was left at the pressing of more personal matters.

Ignoring the voicemails, Will instead scrolls through his contacts. His first instinct is to call Hannibal, but, after the unresolved events of their most recent encounter, Will hesitates and then refrains. It's with much reluctance that he instead pulls up Jack's number and mashes the Send button. He realizes that he is trembling. As the line rings on Jack's end, Will takes a seat on the edge of his bed and manages a few deep breaths to steady himself before Jack picks up.

"_Will_ – "

"Jack, wait," Will interrupts before Jack has the chance to ream him out, "I'm not calling to apologize for yesterday, and I'm not calling to be lectured about it. I just thought I should let you know: the heart the Ripper took from the guy you found the other day – " Shit, his voice is shaking, and he can't stop it, "It's sitting on my front porch."

Minutes later, Will puts down his phone and rests his forehead against the heels of his hands. For the first time in a long time, he cries.

* * *

_A/N: This is actually only the first half of what should have been a very long fifth chapter. However, I really wanted to post this weekend, so I'm splitting the fifth chapter into two separate chapters instead - which means, once again, I'm tacking on another chapter to this fic's planned total (which is now at seven). The reason I wanted to split this up and post now is because I'm heading into the final week of my research experience, and I seriously need to focus on writing an academic paper and doing a few other school-related things, so I don't know when I will be able to update again. Hopefully this will hold you off in the meantime!_

_I'm really interested to see what you think of this update, so please, if you like (or don't like) what you're reading, leave a comment and let me know! _


	6. Chapter 6

Beverly is driving one of the FBI SUVs that are caravanning down to Will Graham's home. Jimmy's riding shotgun, and Brian's in the back. With Jack driving the van in the lead, the forensics team has a chance to talk without Jack's stormy mood hanging over them. Jimmy and Brian take the opportunity to catch Beverly up on Will's dramatic exit the previous day.

"And he just _left?_" Beverly asks, incredulous. Will Graham's just earned a couple of gold stars in her book.

"Just walked right out without looking back – I thought Jack's head was going to start spinning; you should have seen him!" Jimmy says with unmasked glee.

"If any of us had tried that, we'd be searching through the classifieds right about now," Brian says, a little bitterly, from the back of the SUV.

Jimmy quirks an eyebrow, "Jealous, Brian?"

"Of Graham? Please," Brian retorts, "I just hate seeing him waltz into our crime scenes, do his mind mumbo-jumbo, and then get all the credit while we do all the real work." Brian fiddles with the clasps on the camera case he has seated next to him, "And then all he has to do is pull that sad puppy-dog face and everyone feels sorry for him." When Beverly shoots him a disapproving glance in the rearview mirror, Brian pulls his features into a mocking, exaggerated pout.

"Come on, Brian, you know doing this field work is hard on him," Beverly rebukes.

"So he's got problems," Brian snorts, "We've all got problems! I've got problems! You don't see anyone agonizing over me!"

Jimmy laughs, "The only problem _you_ have is trying to figure out if you're pissing in the toilet or the garbage can when you're too blasted to see straight."

Brian leans forward between the two front seats and punches Jimmy in the arm. Jimmy makes a big show of clutching the assaulted limb and mouthing a pained _Ow!_ in Brian's direction. Beverly just rolls her eyes and follows the line of cars as they turn off the narrow backwoods thoroughfare onto the dirt path that leads to Will's Graham's desolate home.

The three car convoy is parking in the grass outside of the renovated farmhouse when the front door opens and Will Graham steps outside. He's wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, and his glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose. As she parks and turns off the car, Beverly takes a moment to study Will through the SUV's spotty windshield. He looks tired, and with all the horrors that Will keeps locked up in his mind, it's not hard to comprehend why.

Will is silent as Jack ascends the few wooden steps to the porch, and he averts his eyes when Jack walks up to him with poorly disguised smugness.

"Well, Will," Jack says, and he nods meaningfully at the heart on the porch, "It looks like you've got something new to work with."

Will shrugs his shoulders minutely; he seems disconnected from what's happening around him, as if he's only half-hearing Jack and the scene before him is shrouded in a fog. Jack either doesn't notice or decides that his investigation is more important than whatever mental crisis Will Graham might be experiencing right now.

"Do I need to tell the team to hold off for a few minutes?" Jack asks, "Or have you already . . . ?"

Will is silent for a moment, then he shakes his head, "No, I haven't reconstructed it yet. I was . . . waiting for you to get here." His voice is flat and small.

Beverly, approaching the porch with Brian and Jimmy trailing behind her, takes a hard look at Will when she hears that. _He didn't want to do it while he was alone,_ she realizes.

"Alright, guys, back it up," Jack says, batting back some of the more superfluous agents, giving Will a wide radius of space to work with.

Will doesn't have the strength to object, doesn't have the willpower in that moment to say _it's getting to be too much; I'm reaching my breaking point_. The Ripper is toying with him, leaving him tokens of carnage in front of his own home, the one place where he should be safe. Well, all illusions of safety are shattered now. Removing his glasses and placing them in his shirt pocket, Will takes a deep breath to restore some semblance of calm and control to his mind. He stands on the steps in front of the porch, goes still, and clears his thoughts.

The pendulum swings. The porch and the yard are clear of people; he is the only one here. The pendulum swings. The vans are gone, and it is night. There are no lights on in the house, and everything is quiet except for the high shrieking of the wind. A storm is coming. The pendulum swings. He is walking down the dirt path. His car, headlights off and engine silent, is back on the road, parked a quarter mile back so the occupants of the house would not hear his arrival. He carries with him a small cooler.

"The heart is the most important organ in the body. The man I took this from did not deserve it, and I will put it to greater use than its previous owner would have."

He moves slowly, taking extreme care so that he approaches in total silence. Even the dogs do not hear him coming, though much of the noise of his advance is masked by the howling wind and the creaking and rustling of the twisting trees and shrubbery outside of the home.

"I do not fear being caught. For years I have eluded all pursuers, and even Will Graham, who may come closer than any other to finding me, will not be successful in the end."

He mounts the steps of the porch just as the rain begins to fall from the sky. It is the downpour of one of the last summer storms. The clattering of the raindrops on the roof of the home and the foliage eliminate any danger of his movements being heard by the home's slumbering occupants. He kneels and opens the cooler to pull out the heart from atop a thin layer of ice.

"This heart, a sample of my work, is an acknowledgement of Graham as an equal, one worthy of the pursuit he engages in. It is also a warning. A reminder that he has much more to fear from me than I have to fear from him. Should he get too close, I will not hesitate to . . . to . . ."

In that moment, real, primal fear descends upon him, and Will snaps out of the reconstruction to find that he is breathing in rapid, shallow gasps as he kneels over the dark red organ. He stands quickly, stumbling backwards towards the front door of his home and overcome with the need to run, to escape the feeling of dread that is quickly pressing in from all sides. His chest tightens, and it is suddenly very hard to breathe. Sweat begins to bead itself on his brow.

Jack is approaching him, and Will retreats farther, pressing his back against the front door of his home.

"Will, hey, snap out of it."

Will puts up a hand to stop Jack's advance, choking out, "I can't do this – I can't do this anymore." His breathing is rapid and shallow.

Jimmy's voice is calling from somewhere in Will's front yard, "He's having a panic attack, Jack."

And then Beverly, having carefully sidestepped Jack, is hovering beside Will. She tries to calm him,

"You're alright, Will. Just take deep breaths; I'm going to take you inside, okay?"

He at first flinches away from the hand that tries to steady him, but she offers soothing words and her grip is persuasive on his arm. His gasping is causing him to hyperventilate, and he's shaking. As Beverly guides him into his home, he feels a crushing weight descend upon his chest. It's a real, physical pain that causes his panic to rise even more. He runs a clammy hand over his face to dispel the dizziness and vertigo. The room is spinning around him like gravity's lost its hold on him. He knows it's only a panic attack, but it feels like he's dying.

"I can't do this anymore," he gasps, his voice strained.

Beverly leads him to an armchair by the door, and he complies with numb obedience when she tells him to sit. His breathing is still heavy, ragged. The muscles in his hands and legs are strangely weak, and he's suddenly glad that he is sitting down. Beverly kneels next to Will, close enough so that he knows she's there but not so close that he feels like she's invading his personal space.

"I need you to take slow, deep breaths, Will," she says.

He tries to control his breathing, but it's hard with the way his heart is beating too fast a rhythm in his chest. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. He can feel the invisible hands of the Ripper closing around his throat.

"Come on, Will, breathe in –"

Will takes a slow, shaky breath and holds it.

" – and breathe out."

He expels the air rapidly and begins to breathe too quickly again, "Beverly, I can't – I can't . . ." He's shaking and he has a hand placed over his chest like it will lessen the awful, crushing pressure he feels there.

"It's okay, Will; you're safe. I just need you to breathe for me."

Beverly leads him through breathing exercises, and eventually his breathing begins to slow and even out. It takes only a few minutes for him to stop hyperventilating. As sudden as the panic attack has come on, it begins to dissipate. With his breathing under control, the panic recedes, and his heart rate slows; the pressure constricting his chest lifts. The episode leaves him tired and despondent. He has no strength left in his body, and his mind wrapped in a thick wad of cotton. The fear is replaced with an overwhelming sense of hopelessness, and he's fighting back tears for the second time that morning.

Will's pain is written clearly on his face, and Beverly reaches out to rest a hand on Will's knee as a sign of comfort. Will jerks away from her.

"Please don't touch me," he mumbles. He can see the worry in her eyes. And the pity. He doesn't want that, though, doesn't want her pity.

Will draws his legs up to his chest and rests his forehead on his knees so he doesn't have to look at Beverly. He looks like a petulant child, but he doesn't care because he doesn't want Beverly to see the tears that are sliding down his cheeks. The sounds of shifting fabric and receding footsteps tell of Beverly's departure, and Will hears the front door open and shut as Beverly rejoins the team outside.

When Beverly emerges from the house, Jack makes a move like he's going to go in, but Beverly stops him.

"You probably shouldn't try to talk to him just yet, Jack. He's not in the best mental state right now, and drilling him with questions is only going to make it worse. "

"I didn't realize you had a degree in psychology, Beverly," Jack snaps.

Beverly just shrugs her shoulders, "I'm just saying, maybe give him a break for once."

Jack looks infinitely displeased but doesn't go for the front door.

"Someone needs to call Dr. Lecter and get him down here," he growls.

* * *

Will hears another car pull up in front of the house. The engine cuts out, and a car door opens and closes. Muffled voices filter inside as someone is greeted and things are explained and other things are demanded. Then the front door opens and heavy footsteps enter Will's home. Will is still curled up on the armchair, his arms clasped around his drawn up legs and his chin pressed into his chest. He does not look up when the footsteps stop in front of him.

"Hello, Will." Hannibal's voice is soft.

When Will refuses to respond, he hears wood scraping against the floor as Hannibal moves an ottoman in front of the chair that Will occupies. He hears the piece of furniture creak as Hannibal sits down.

"Will, please look at me." Despite the wording, there's nothing in Hannibal's voice that demands Will's compliance, and it is this that coaxes Will to lift his head.

Will's eyes are red and bleary, unfocused as they avoid looking into Hannibal's face. When Hannibal swipes his palm over Will's forehead, brushing back the untamed curls, Will feels his chest tighten, and his throat constricts with a hot sob he swallows down.

The edges of Hannibal's eyes crinkle slightly. "Jack is demanding that I find out what you saw when you reconstructed the scene." Hannibal brings his other hand up to Will's face and rubs soothing circles with his thumbs on the pressure points at the sides of Will's forehead. Hot moisture collects in the corners of Will's eyes.

"However, acting as both your therapist and your friend, I do not often find myself compelled to listen to the whims of Jack Crawford."

Will tries to laugh, but it comes out as a choking noise from the back of his throat. When he blinks, a tear runs unhindered down his cheek. The gentle pressure of Hannibal's hands on his face is destroying whatever remaining shreds of composure Will has. After so many years of avoiding physical contact – too afraid to get too close only to have to endure rejection– he had forgotten the power a simple touch has to comfort and soothe.

When Hannibal removes his hands from Will's face, a small sob bubbles out of Will.

"Hannibal . . ." Will's tone is pleading, desperate to feel cared for, loved. Streams of tears seep from the corners of his eyes.

"Shh, Will, it's okay; I'm here."

Hannibal scoots forward so he is perched on the edge of the ottoman. He wraps his arms around Will, and Will, still curled up tightly with his arms around his legs, tips forward so that his head rests against Hannibal's shoulder. Will presses his nose into the fabric of Hannibal's shirt and breathes deeply. Hannibal's scent fills him and flushes out the bitter residue of his receded panic, and Will does not see Hannibal's small smile at Will's ready acceptance of this small comfort. Running his hands along Will's back, Hannibal rubs slow patterns into the shaking plane of Will's body.

"Hannibal . . ." Will can't stop murmuring the name, an invocation on his lips to the man before him.

"I'm here, Will." Hannibal presses his lips against Will's curls. "I will always be here for you."

Wrapped in Hannibal's arms, Will finds the sense of safety that had earlier been ripped from him. It is small and fragile and new, hidden here at the juncture of Hannibal's neck and shoulder, but it is there, and Will holds onto it like it's the lighthouse guiding him home on a rough sea.

* * *

It is as everyone is packing up and preparing to leave the scene that Hannibal finally emerges from the house. Jack, who had been pacing the length of the porch impatiently, immediately approaches Hannibal and demands answers.

"Jack, Will is in a fragile state right now, and I don't want unnecessary questioning to put further strain on him."

"I would hardly call it unnecessary questioning, Dr. Lecter," Jack bristles.

"You're right, of course," Hannibal concedes, "But it will have to wait until tomorrow. I will see to it myself that Will speaks with you then about this incident. For now, however, I must insist that he is left alone in order to deal with the shock of the event."

Jack huffs but acquiesces. "You see to it that he gets his ass down to Quantico tomorrow, then," Jack says, and then marches over to the large FBI van.

"You have my word, Jack," Hannibal says, and watches Jack wrench open the van door and settle in the driver's seat like a displeased bear.

In a few minutes, the line of SUVs is making its way back up the dirt driveway to the main road, and in her rearview mirror, Beverly glances back at Will's receding house. She sees Hannibal on the porch, hovering over the now empty spot where the heart once lay, his head inclined downward, and his hands clasped rigidly behind his back.

* * *

Hannibal remains with Will for the rest of the day, providing company for the shaken man. Though Will is mostly reticent about the events of the morning, Hannibal attempts simple small-talk, nudging Will to think of other things. But Will's mind is too consumed by the Ripper's unnerving invasion to process much else. Several times throughout the day, loud creaks cause Will to jump and look nervously out the window, but it's just the sound of the old farmhouse settling into the earth.

Using Will's meagerly stocked pantry, Hannibal prepares lunch and dinner for them both, and Will thanks him urgently, saying that he shouldn't feel obliged to stick around like this. Hannibal assures him that it's no trouble and that he couldn't even entertain the idea of leaving his friend at such a time. Will is silently glad for that.

When evening comes, Hannibal insists on spending the night as well. Although Will protests half-heartedly, it is clear that he is nervous about being alone in what has become a suddenly hostile house. When Hannibal, much to Will's relief, makes it clear that he has no problem staying with his friend for the night, Will digs a set of sheets out from a closet and makes up the couch for Hannibal. Will gives Hannibal several more chances to leave, but Hannibal is resolute. Soon night has fallen, and it is too late for Hannibal to comfortably make the hour drive back to Baltimore. At eleven o'clock, after several hours of stretched silence, Will says an awkward good night to Hannibal and retreats into his bedroom for the night.

* * *

Despite Hannibal's welcome presence, Will finds it difficult to sleep. He tosses and turns, thoughts running unchecked through his mind. Whatever walls he had built up as protection in his mind are gone now, whittled away in the past few months by stress and anxiety. The shock of today had demolished the remaining shaky foundations.

Will gazes at the ceiling and there is Elise Nichols suspended overhead, her body hung to bleed out on a set of bone-white antlers. When he blinks the vision away and looks instead to the foot of his bed, there are the two of Elliot Buddish's angels praying over him, their backs slayed open, and their gory wings fluttering in a non-existent wind. Will shuts his eyes tight to keep out the images, but behind his eyelids the unknown face of the Ripper mocks him. He opens his eyes and turns on his side.

Eventually fatigue overcomes him, and he falls into a restless sleep, slipping in and out of a half-dreaming state. The periods of sleep that steal over him are brief and peppered with nightmares, and he wakes from them with horrible afterimages superimposed in the darkness of his bedroom.

The sound of his own strangled yell jerks him awake from a dream and into half-consciousness. In the shadows behind his half-closed bedroom door, he sees a jeering face, then the glint of a blade – a spurt of crimson blood that paints the floor in wide strokes. He lies still for a moment, his eyes snapped open as he stares into the darkness. He has to convince himself that there is no one there, that it is just his tired mind playing tricks on him, conjuring up sinister images of the Ripper hiding in the shadows. When the vision does not reappear, Will settles onto his back and examines the ceiling, searching it for clues to sleep.

From the living room, Will hears the squeaky springs of the couch, then the heavy pad of bare feet against the wooden floor. Had his yell woken Hannibal? When his bedroom door is pushed open, Will closes his eyes, feeling like he's eight years old again, pretending to be sleeping while his father comes to check on him in the middle of the night. For a long minute, there is silence, and Will can feel Hannibal's eyes on him. Then, the sound of shuffling feet walk around to the far side of Will's bed. The covers shift, and the mattress dips.

Will is wide awake now, aware of the presence and warmth of the man next to him even with his eyes shut. It has been a long time since he has shared a bed with another person, and he has to fight to keep his calm, even breathing of mimicked sleep as his heart rate rises. The sheets shift again, and Will suppresses the instinct to jerk away when he feels Hannibal's hand rest against his chest. The heat of the hand soaks through Will's thin shirt, and the fingers curl and uncurl slowly, bunching and then smoothing the fabric against Will's skin. The feeling is not unpleasant.

Will knows that Hannibal is not fooled by his pretense of sleep, for surely Hannibal can feel the too rapid beating of his heart, but even so, Will does not open his eyes or otherwise acknowledge Hannibal's presence. For now, it's easier to pretend: to pretend that he isn't awake, that he isn't threatened by the heart the Ripper left on his front porch, that he isn't haunted by the workings of his mind in his sleep, and that he isn't falling in love with the man comforting him in the darkness. For now, as his heart calms under the weight of Hannibal's hand, it's easier to pretend.

With Hannibal so close, the demons in Will's mind recede, bated back by the comforting presence. For the first time that night, Will finds himself falling into a deep, undisturbed sleep, but before he slips into the unconsciousness of dreamless slumber, Hannibal whispers something beside him. But it is whispered too softly for Will's mind to catch and decipher, and Will floats into sleep without knowing the contents of those hushed words.

* * *

In the morning, Will wakes alone in his bed. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he remembers the previous night and wonders if he had imagined Hannibal coming into his bedroom and slipping into his bed. He looks at the other side of his bed, the sheets slightly rumpled. From the bathroom Will hears the sound of water running, splashing from the spigot into the sink. The water turns off, and Hannibal walks into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. He is wearing only his boxers, and his hair is partially tamed, slightly dampened bangs pushed to one side and out of his face. Seeing that Will is awake, he smiles.

"Good morning, Will," he says and goes to sit on the edge of Will's bed.

Will pulls his legs out from under the covers and swings them over the edge so that the two of them are sitting side by side on the mattress. Hannibal reaches over and places a hand on Will's knee.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Hannibal asks.

Will laces his fingers together in his lap and stares at them.

"Fine," he says, his answer terse because he's thinking about other things. He feels like there's an elephant in the room, but he can't tell if he's the only one that sees it. He takes a deep breath before plunging forward.

"Hannibal, what is . . . this? What are we? Are we just friends because. . . this doesn't feel like just friendship to me." It's the first time he's saying it out loud, and as scary as it is to acknowledge, it feels good to get it out in the open.

Hannibal takes a moment before responding.

"Will. You are, of course, a very dear friend to me, and I care for you very deeply," he squeezes Will's knee for emphasis before withdrawing his hand. "When you joined me for dinner the other night, it seemed to me that you too felt the possibility of a more amorous relationship, though I understand why you may be having some misgivings about it."

"It's just . . . new to me," Will admits.

Hannibal nods in understanding, "If you don't want this, Will, I can return to simply being your therapist. I do not wish to impose myself on you in a way you are not comfortable with."

Will shakes his head. He can't imagine returning to their semi-professional relationship, and that's not what he wants, anyway.

"No, I . . . I _want_ this." Will untangles his fingers and places a hand, awkwardly but decisively, on Hannibal's knee. Hannibal chuckles and places his hand over Will's.

"I'm glad to hear that, Will," Hannibal says, and he places a kiss on Will's clothed shoulder.

Will smiles.

Maybe it's because he's seeking safety in Hannibal, or maybe it's just because he hasn't felt this close to someone in years, but whatever the reason, the precipice looming before him seems much less terrifying with Hannibal standing beside him.

* * *

_A/N: Finished this chapter at 3 in the morning. I apologize for any glaring grammatical errors and/or poor writing. _

_One more chapter to go! I'm hoping to finish this up by this weekend since I'm heading back for my senior year of college on Saturday. Thanks to everyone who's been following, and a special thanks to everyone who has left a comment - I love reading what you have to say!_


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